Tales of Tragedy and Sometimes, Manly Bonding
by TheArc5
Summary: AU. In Valinor, the members of the Fellowship yes, all of them stave off boredom. But Frodo's new hobby brings up an unexpected issue...
1. Chapter 1

A shriek rang out over the Undying Lands.

Not quite the entirety of the Undying Lands, but rather a small bit of it. A very small bit. A small bit that contained a cozy smial with a window that overlooked a garden. In the garden, a small figure straightened abruptly at the shriek, letting a handful of soil drop through his fingers. Inside the window (or, rather, the smial where the window was set), a second small figure thumped his forehead against a desk covered in parchment. Hearing the thump, the first figure (who happened to be a hobbit, and a gardener of great renown), peered inside the open window.

"Mr. Frodo? Is somethin' wrong?"

Frodo paused briefly in smacking his forehead against the parchment. "Oh, Sam," he groaned. "I don't think I can take another minute of it."

Sam sighed and went to wash his hands. He knew what Frodo meant, and it was no business to bandy about through a window.

Sam's arrival in Valinor some years earlier had been cause for great celebration. Frodo was overjoyed to see his friend again, but he also explained to Sam that not much really happened in the Undying Lands. There was little by way of entertainment when everybody was twice your height and nobody had more than a vague idea of how to play whist. After several decades of quiet, pastoral existence, without so much as a bothersome relative to disturb the peace, Sam found himself agreeing.

After quite some time, there was some upheaval in the hobbits' lives. By some boon Sam was never quite able to figure out, the entire Fellowship was given a place in Valinor, complete with immortality, eternal youth, and a well-stocked larder. Even Boromir was present, much to his surprise. (Everyone else was downright flabbergasted. Boromir had to walk into a wall twice to prove to Pippin he wasn't a ghost.) For a time, the Fellowship was content merely spending time together, enjoying their friendship in a peace denied them when they first met. (Gandalf muttered for a time about pitiful contrivances and pathetic deus ex machinas, but no one paid him much heed. As Boromir so eloquently put it, "I'm not dead. I kind of like that.")

But eventually, everyone agreed they needed to find some sort of hobby. Gimli took Merry and Pippin under his wing, and the three of them built a highly successful forge. Jewelry-making (no malice, hatred, or world domination, guaranteed!) proved a lucrative enterprise and the elves willing customers. (Legolas had stoutly denied the elves were _all_ quite so vain, but the argument lost quite a bit of credibility when two elves began tussling over a silver tiara in the background.) A Pippin Original alone was worth two kegs of dark ale and five backrubs. (Backrubs were actually a viable currency in the Undying Lands; centuries of immortality had given the elves unbelievable muscle tension, as well as truly astounding methods of massage.)

Aragorn and Boromir invented their own amusement. The Game (neither of them was very inventive with titles) involved weeks of tramping through the woods, a number of yellow flags, four silver spoons, a leather ball, iambic pentameter, and a badger. What the actual rules of The Game were, only they knew for sure. Attempts to involve the others inevitably failed, but they seemed to enjoy themselves, and the others left them to it. (Legolas had been persuaded to join The Game once, but had only lasted a day. When asked about the experience, he burst into tears, and only after several cups of Sam's strong tea was he able to reply, "Don't. Just don't.")

Legolas, having had quite a bit longer to get used to the idea, was well adjusted with his immortality. His one foray into self-diversion was to help Sam in his efforts to fend off boredom. Sam had turned immediately to what he knew (caring for Frodo, gardening, and cooking, in that order), and Legolas often brought him new plants to try out in his burgeoning garden. In return, Sam would bake, much to Legolas's delight. (Lembas bread was excellent for a march, he confided in Sam, but a triple berry tart with fresh sweet cream lay much easier on the tongue. Sam privately wondered if his baking would be the cause of the first fat elf in history, but continued baking anyway.)

Frodo alone found difficulty in choosing a hobby. Books he had in abundance, but he soon grew impatient with the long-winded and inevitably tragic tales of the elves. He longed for something to Ido/I. Eventually, Gandalf appeared with a solution.

(No one was quite sure how Gandalf spent his days, but he seemed happy enough. Pippin had heard rumors of strip poker, and after that, everyone was a little afraid to ask.)

"Look, Sam," Frodo had said, sorting through the parchments Gandalf had brought. "We are in tales! Lots of them! And I'm going to read them, and find the mistakes, and fix them if I can."

That had been the beginning of the trouble.

Freshly washed, Sam entered the study and settled on a low chaise near Frodo's desk.

"What is it this time?" he asked. "Is it one of them Mary-Sues again?"

Frodo had stopped beating his face against the desk, his forehead becoming rather sore, and he turned to gaze mournfully at Sam.

"Oh, Sam, it's much worse than that."

Sam snorted. "I can't see how that is, Mr. Frodo. Them Mary-Sues are somethin' awful. There weren't no lasses on Mount Doom, unless there's somethin' none of us knew about old Gollum, and I'm right tired of hearing how some flouncing skirt did the work as we done ourselves."

He reached for the parchment and Frodo grasped his wrist, panicked.

"Don't, Sam! It's terrible, and I don't want you to…"

"There, there," Sam soothed, easily shaking off Frodo's grip and taking the parchment. The ink was a shocking shade of pink, and small hearts mingled with the runes. With barely a glance at Frodo (who moaned melodramatically), he began to read.

"Oh," he said at last. "Oh."

"I told you," Frodo whispered.

A loud rap at the door halted further conversation. Frodo rose to answer it, and Sam gingerly replaced the parchment on the desk before following. He found Frodo in the kitchen, being pushed into a chair and offered a tumbler of brandy by Merry and Pippin.

"Drink that," Merry ordered. "I can't think what's gotten… Hullo, Sam."

"Not you as well!" Pippin cried, looking up. "Pour us another, Merry, Sam's as pale as Frodo. What's happened, you two?"

"Slash," Frodo mumbled. "It's called slash."

Merry and Pippin exchanged blank looks. Frodo buried his head in his arms, and Sam tossed back his brandy with one smooth motion.

"It's them stories," he supplied. "They've taken a turn for the worse."

"Not the Mary-Sues again," Pippin groaned. "The spelling…"

"Worse," Frodo said emphatically, his voice muffled by his arms.

"Does it get worse?" Merry asked.

"Seems some people think that Mr. Frodo and I… Well, that we Ienjoy/I each other's company," Sam said, flushing a little.

"Well, of course you do," Merry said kindly. "Everyone knows the two of you are the best of friends."

"The best of friends don't usually bugger each other," Sam muttered. The sentence had the most unusual effect of rendering both Merry and Pippin speechless at the same time. The four hobbits sat in silence, Frodo's face completely hidden, Sam staring intently into his empty tumbler, and Merry and Pippin staring, wide-eyed, at them both.

"Perhaps," Merry ventured at last, "perhaps you've read it wrong, Frodo. Mistranslated or something."

Frodo's head snapped up, blue eyes blazing. "Merry, it's possible I could have mistranslated a word or two. I might have even mistranslated 'bugger'. But I really don't think I misinterpreted four pages of unresolved sexual tension, two and a half pages of angst-ridden wanking, five pages of not-so-subtle seduction, and nine pages of rampant debauchery in every corner of Bag End!"

"Nine pages?" Pippin said weakly. Merry gaped. Sam shook himself and stood, half out of sheer habit, to put the kettle on.

"Well, you're supposed to keep the stories accurate, aren't you?" Pippin demanded. "You'll just have to…to…burn them all!"

"I can't," Frodo said morosely. "Don't you remember the Great Mary-Sue Incident?"

The four hobbits soberly looked down at the table. The Great Mary-Sue Incident had been more excitement than anyone had really needed. Frodo, in a fit of editorial rage, had thrown several manuscripts into his fireplace. Fourteen elves had disappeared almost instantaneously. (Elrond had spoken darkly of closets and shrines and whipped cream in unspeakable places. None dared ask how he knew such things; in fact, few heard the full tale, the great majority running away with their hands over their ears in utter horror.) Gandalf had managed to reverse the process, thanks to a solitary three days bent over Frodo's fireplace, but the event had rattled everyone, the elves in particular. (Two of those to return still fainted dead away when faced with the smallest dollop of whipped cream.)

"The worst part is, it's not just Sam and I," Frodo continued. "There are all sorts of pairings."

"What do you mean?" Pippin asked. Frodo frowned at him.

"Well, on the hobbit end of things…" he began, but Merry interrupted.

"Hobbit end of things? Pippin and I were the only other hobbits on the quest."

"Exactly."

Merry and Pippin stared at each other, realization dawning at the exact same moment.

"Argh!" they shouted in one voice, and toppled off the low bench.

"But… We're cousins!" Pippin announced from the floor.

"And when has that stopped anyone in the Shire?" Sam interjected, filling the teapot.

"Sam makes a point," Merry remarked. "Those Bracegirdles…"

"Merry!" Pippin exclaimed. "You're rather missing the point! We've been accused of clandestine romantic involvement! Bugger the Bracegirdles!"

"I have," Merry mused. "Well, one of them. Once."

Sam nearly spilled the tea, and Pippin flailed incoherently on the floor.

"I beg your pardon?" Frodo sputtered. Merry rolled his eyes.

"It was a tweener lark, and we were both so drunk, I'm surprised I remember it happened at all. But it's never happened with Pippin, and I can't imagine you snogging Sam, either."

"You buggered a Bracegirdle," Sam said, flopping into a chair. "That's an eye-opener, and no mistake."


	2. Chapter 2

"I say! Shall we take our ease here, brother?"

The loud voice came from the direction of the front door, and Frodo rose wearily to answer it.

"Indeed, brother. Our friends shall welcome us."

Frodo opened the door and leaned against the frame as Aragorn waved a yellow flag, Boromir bowed and held out a silver spoon, and both assumed dramatic poses.

"I must protest, sir; 'welcome' is ill stress'd," Boromir said, stowing the spoon. Aragorn glowered.

"You protest, yet remove sounds from your words!"

"I hold to the great Elf wordsmith, Hadech," Boromir sniffed.

"You hold to your own miscounting, methinks."

"You think? That is a tale I have not heard."

"Dare you insult your king, o Boromir?"

"Dare you insult the dead, o Aragorn?"

Frodo yawned. "Are you two going to come in today, or would you prefer to wait a month or two?"

"Hold a moment, Frodo, there's a good lad," Aragorn muttered. Boromir was doing something complicated with a spoon now, and Aragorn suddenly began juggling the flags.

"Let us end this, brother, and take our ease."

"Right you are! I suppose there will be cake?"

"Cake out your ears," Frodo interjected. "Only there mustn't be a badger this time. The last one nearly gave Sam apoplexy."

"Don't be absurd," Boromir scoffed, catching Aragorn's flags and tossing him a spoon. "It's not Tuesday. Well, then?"

"You've won this round," Aragorn replied, stowing the spoon and taking out a small roll of parchment and a pencil. He made a careful mark and tucked the items back in the pouch at his belt. The two Men shook hands and followed Frodo back to the kitchen, where Merry was talking over some of Sam's strong tea and Sam himself was staring into his full cup. Pippin remained on the floor, curled obstinately in the fetal position with his hands over his ears.

"So I said we could still be friends, and that I was sorry about the hat," Merry was saying. Sam shook his head.

"Imagine," he said, half to himself. "A Bracegirdle and all."

"I'm not listening!" Pippin said unnecessarily. Merry rolled his eyes.

"I can't say that I blame him, Mer," Frodo said, getting out cups for Boromir and Aragorn. "I've read enough about buggery to last me a lifetime."

Boromir choked a bit on his tea. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"

"You've come in a bit late," Frodo sighed. Aragorn frowned, concerned.

"What troubles you, my friends? You all look a bit glum, and what's this about…"

"Buggery," Sam said, thumping a fist against the table.

"Sam," Boromir said in awe, "I've never heard you swear in my life, before or after death."

"It's not swearing, sir. Them stories as Frodo reads have taken a turn for the worse. No, not Mary Sues," Sam continued, forestalling Boromir's interjection. "It's called slash. There's a great stack of parchment on Mr. Frodo's desk that's all over how we hobbits buggered each other before the Quest, on the Quest, and after the Quest, and a lot more besides. And none of it true, though Mr. Merry is more than a mite familiar with Toby Bracegirdle, come tell, but there's naught to be done."

"May I take a look?" Aragorn asked. Frodo obligingly fetched the parchments, and handed Aragorn a stack. Aragorn read quickly, then turned an unusual shade of puce.

"Honestly, Frodo," he managed at last. "Anduril?"

"Aragorn!" Frodo wailed in despair. "Sam just told you! I don't actually think those things!"

Aragorn shuffled the parchment. "Of course. It's obviously fiction. I'm not the least bit scruffy."

Boromir raised an eyebrow and Pippin snickered. Sam perched on a bench to read over Aragorn's shoulder and scowled.

"See here," he said after a moment or two. "I thought it was you and I as was getting' up to no good, Mr. Frodo! Not you and Mr. Strider!"

"I told you there were all sorts of pairings," Frodo said, lowering his head again. Sam crossed his arms.

"Who else, then?"

"Who else, what?" Frodo asked, looking up. Sam hopped off the bench.

"Who else am I supposed to be…be… Enjoyin' company with?"

Frodo blinked. "Well… Just me, I suppose. I'm the one who seems to shag everything in sight."

"You do at that," Boromir said, turning over a stack. He paused, and eyed Frodo appraisingly. "Can you really bend in half backwards?"

Merry choked on a mouthful of tea, and Pippin leapt up to pat him helpfully on the back. His efforts were somewhat thwarted, though, when he piped up, "Of course he can. I've seen him do it loads of times."

"Interesting," Boromir said, going back to the pages. Pippin turned all of his attention to Merry, who now sounded like he might hyperventilate. Sam still scowled.

"Just you, then?" he said. "How come?"

"I don't know, Sam," Frodo said, exasperated. "In the stories, you're always hopelessly devoted to me, that's all."

"Not far from the truth," Pippin murmured, sending Merry into fresh spasms.

"Why can't I be interested in anyone else?" Sam asked. Frodo looked up at him as if he'd sprouted a second head, a third arm, and multiple hairless feet simultaneously.

"You're not…jealous, are you, Sam?" he said incredulously. Sam blushed and held his arms tighter.

"I just don't see why it's you as gets everyone you bat your eyelashes at. Why, I know for fact I'd kissed more lasses than you before I'd even come of age, and I may not be as fair as you, but my Rosie always said I'd Ipersonality/I."

"Sam," Merry said, recovered at last, "I don't really think Frodo's position is one to be envied. From what I can gather, it seems my dear cousin is being portrayed as something of a trollop, albeit an unusually bendy trollop, and one with an overenthusiastic adoration of swords."

"I think you're fair enough," Pippin said, leaving Merry's side to slide a comforting arm around Sam's shoulders. "Frodo's always been too skinny. And you do have a personality, a wonderful one, and look at all you can do: garden, and cook better than any of us, and you're as good as a healer when someone's ill. And whatever those damnable stories say, I know that Frodo loves you very much. If he were a nancing poofter, I can't imagine he'd ever leave your side."

Sam's posture relaxed, and Pippin pulled him easily into a hug. Merry shook his head, smiling, but Frodo glowered at Pippin's back.

"Nancing poofter, honestly!" he muttered darkly. "And how does Sam know about any lasses I've kissed?"

"Erm," Boromir said awkwardly. "I think we've come to the edge of manly bonding."

Sam sniffed, releasing Pippin, and Pippin helpfully produced a handkerchief. Aragorn simply looked a little stunned.

"Hobbits," he said. "Always were a bit peculiar."


End file.
